The Monk - A Romance

by The Monk [lit]

  when they were stopped by the return of an elderly Woman, whom

  Theodore had not till then observed: Her mild countenance, and

  respectable air prejudiced him immediately in her favour.

  'Hah!' said the Porteress; 'Here comes the Mother St. Ursula with

  a Basket.'

  The Nun approached the Grate, and presented the Basket to

  Theodore: It was of willow, lined with blue satin, and upon the

  four sides were painted scenes from the legend of St. Genevieve.

  'Here is my gift,' said She, as She gave it into his hand; 'Good

  Youth, despise it not; Though its value seems insignificant, it

  has many hidden virtues.'

  She accompanied these words with an expressive look. It was not

  lost upon Theodore; In receiving the present, He drew as near the

  Grate as possible.

  'Agnes!' She whispered in a voice scarcely intelligible.

  Theodore, however, caught the sound: He concluded that some

  mystery was concealed in the Basket, and his heart beat with

  impatience and joy. At this moment the Domina returned. Her air

  was gloomy and frowning, and She looked if possible more stern

  than ever.

  'Mother St. Ursula, I would speak with you in private.'

  The Nun changed colour, and was evidently disconcerted.

  'With me?' She replied in a faltering voice.

  The Domina motioned that She must follow her, and retired. The

  Mother St. Ursula obeyed her; Soon after, the Refectory Bell

  ringing a second time, the Nuns quitted the Grate, and Theodore

  was left at liberty to carry off his prize. Delighted that at

  length He had obtained some intelligence for the Marquis, He flew

  rather than ran, till He reached the Hotel de las Cisternas. In

  a few minutes He stood by his Master's Bed with the Basket in his

  hand. Lorenzo was in the chamber, endeavouring to reconcile his

  Friend to a misfortune which He felt himself but too severely.

  Theodore related his adventure, and the hopes which had been

  created by the Mother St. Ursula's gift. The Marquis started

  from

  his pillow: That fire which since the death of Agnes had been

  extinguished, now revived in his bosom, and his eyes sparkled

  with the eagerness of expectation. The emotions which Lorenzo's

  countenance betrayed, were scarcely weaker, and He waited with

  inexpressible impatience for the solution of this mystery.

  Raymond caught the basket from the hands of his Page: He emptied

  the contents upon the bed, and examined them with minute

  attention. He hoped that a letter would be found at the bottom;

  Nothing of the kind appeared. The search was resumed, and still

  with no better success. At length Don Raymond observed that one

  corner of the blue satin lining was unripped; He tore it open

  hastily, and drew forth a small scrap of paper neither folded or

  sealed. It was addressed to the Marquis de las Cisternas, and

  the contents were as follows.

  Having recognised your Page, I venture to send these few lines.

  Procure an order from the Cardinal-Duke for seizing my Person,

  and that of the Domina; But let it not be executed till Friday at

  midnight. It is the Festival of St. Clare: There will be a

  procession of Nuns by torch-light, and I shall be among them.

  Beware not to let your intention be known: Should a syllable be

  dropt to excite the Domina's suspicions, you will never hear of

  me more. Be cautious, if you prize the memory of Agnes, and wish

  to punish her Assassins. I have that to tell, will freeze your

  blood with horror. St. Ursula.

  No sooner had the Marquis read the note than He fell back upon

  his pillow deprived of sense or motion. The hope failed him

  which till now had supported his existence; and these lines

  convinced him but too positively that Agnes was indeed no more.

  Lorenzo felt this circumstance less forcibly, since it had always

  been his idea that his Sister had perished by unfair means. When

  He found by the Mother St. Ursula's letter how true were his

  suspicions, the confirmation excited no other sentiment in his

  bosom than a wish to punish the Murderers as they deserved. It

  was no easy task to recall the Marquis to himself. As soon as He

  recovered his speech, He broke out into execrations against the

  Assassins of his Beloved, and vowed to take upon them a signal

  vengeance. He continued to rave and torment himself with

  impotent passion till his constitution, enfeebled by grief and

  illness, could support itself no longer, and He relapsed into

  insensibility. His melancholy situation sincerely affected

  Lorenzo, who would willingly have remained in the apartment of

  his Friend; But other cares now demanded his presence. It was

  necessary to procure the order for seizing the Prioress of St.

  Clare. For this purpose, having committed Raymond to the care of

  the best Physicians in Madrid, He quitted the Hotel de las

  Cisternas, and bent his course towards the Palace of the

  Cardinal-Duke.

  His disappointment was excessive, when He found that affairs of

  State had obliged the Cardinal to set out for a distant Province.

  It wanted but five to Friday: Yet by travelling day and night,

  He hoped to return in time for the Pilgrimage of St. Clare. In

  this He succeeded. He found the Cardinal-Duke; and represented

  to him the supposed culpability of the Prioress, as also the

  violent effects which it had produced upon Don Raymond. He could

  have used no argument so forcible as this last. Of all his

  Nephews, the Marquis was the only one to whom the Cardinal-Duke

  was sincerely attached: He perfectly doated upon him, and the

  Prioress could have committed no greater crime in his eyes than

  to have endangered the life of the Marquis. Consequently, He

  granted the order of arrest without difficulty: He also gave

  Lorenzo a letter to a principal Officer of the Inquisition,

  desiring him to see his mandate executed. Furnished with these

  papers, Medina hastened back to Madrid, which He reached on the

  Friday a few hours before dark. He found the Marquis somewhat

  easier, but so weak and exhausted that without great exertion He

  could neither speak or more. Having past an hour by his Bedside,

  Lorenzo left him to communicate his design to his Uncle, as also

  to give Don Ramirez de Mello the Cardinal's letter. The First

  was petrified with horror when He learnt the fate of his unhappy

  Niece: He encouraged Lorenzo to punish her Assassins, and

  engaged to accompany him at night to St. Clare's Convent. Don

  Ramirez promised his firmest support, and selected a band of

  trusty Archers to prevent opposition on the part of the Populace.

  But while Lorenzo was anxious to unmask one religious Hypocrite,

  He was unconscious of the sorrows prepared for him by Another.

  Aided by Matilda's infernal Agents, Ambrosio had resolved upon

  the innocent Antonia's ruin. The moment destined to be so fatal

  to her arrived. She had taken leave of her Mother for the night.

  As She kissed her, She felt an unusual despondency infuse itself

  into her bosom. She left her, and returned t
o her instantly,

  threw herself into her maternal arms, and bathed her cheek with

  tears: She felt uneasy at quitting her, and a secret

  presentiment assured her that never must they meet again. Elvira

  observed, and tried to laugh her out of this childish prejudice:

  She chid her mildly for encouraging such ungrounded sadness, and

  warned her how dangerous it was to encourage such ideas.

  To all her remonstrances She received no other answer than,

  'Mother! Dear Mother! Oh! would to God, it were Morning!'

  Elvira, whose inquietude respecting her Daughter was a great

  obstacle to her perfect reestablishment, was still labouring

  under the effects of her late severe illness. She was this

  Evening more than usually indisposed, and retired to bed before

  her accustomed hour. Antonia withdrew from her Mother's chamber

  with regret, and till the Door closed, kept her eyes fixed upon

  her with melancholy expression. She retired to her own

  apartment; Her heart was filled with bitterness: It seemed to

  her that all her prospects were blasted, and the world contained

  nothing for which it was worth existing. She sank into a Chair,

  reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor with a

  vacant stare, while the most gloomy images floated before her

  fancy. She was still in this state of insensibility when She

  was disturbed by hearing a strain of soft Music breathed beneath

  her window. She rose, drew near the Casement, and opened it to

  hear it more distinctly. Having thrown her veil over her face,

  She ventured to look out. By the light of the Moon She perceived

  several Men below with Guitars and Lutes in their hands; and at a

  little distance from them stood Another wrapped in his cloak,

  whose stature and appearance bore a strong resemblance to

  Lorenzo's. She was not deceived in this conjecture. It was

  indeed Lorenzo himself, who bound by his word not to present

  himself to Antonia without his Uncle's consent, endeavoured by

  occasional Serenades, to convince his Mistress that his

  attachment still existed. His stratagem had not the desired

  effect. Antonia was far from supposing that this nightly music

  was intended as a compliment to her: She was too modest to think

  herself worthy such attentions; and concluding them to be

  addressed to some neighbouring Lady, She grieved to find that

  they were offered by Lorenzo.

  The air which was played, was plaintive and melodious. It

  accorded with the state of Antonia's mind, and She listened with

  pleasure. After a symphony of some length, it was succeeded by

  the sound of voices, and Antonia distinguished the following

  words.

  SERENADE

  Chorus

  Oh! Breathe in gentle strain, my Lyre!

  'Tis here that Beauty loves to rest:

  Describe the pangs of fond desire,

  Which rend a faithful Lover's breast.

  Song

  In every heart to find a Slave,

  In every Soul to fix his reign,

  In bonds to lead the wise and brave,

  And make the Captives kiss his chain,

  Such is the power of Love, and Oh!

  I grieve so well Love's power to know.

  In sighs to pass the live-long day,

  To taste a short and broken sleep,

  For one dear Object far away,

  All others scorned, to watch and weep,

  Such are the pains of Love, and Oh!

  I grieve so well Love's pains to know!

  To read consent in virgin eyes,

  To press the lip ne'er prest till then

  To hear the sigh of transport rise,

  And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again,

  Such are thy pleasures, Love, But Oh!

  When shall my heart thy pleasures know?

  Chorus

  Now hush, my Lyre! My voice be still!

  Sleep, gentle Maid! May fond desire

  With amorous thoughts thy visions fill,

  Though still my voice, and hushed my Lyre.

  The Music ceased: The Performers dispersed, and silence

  prevailed through the Street. Antonia quitted the window with

  regret: She as usual recommended herself to the protection of

  St. Rosolia, said her accustomed prayers, and retired to bed.

  Sleep was not long absent, and his presence relieved her from her

  terrors and inquietude

  It was almost two o'clock before the lustful Monk ventured to

  bend his steps towards Antonia's dwelling. It has been already

  mentioned that the Abbey was at no great distance from the

  Strada di San Iago. He reached the House unobserved. Here He

  stopped, and hesitated for a moment. He reflected on the

  enormity of the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the

  probability, after what had passed, of Elvira's suspecting him to

  be her Daughter's Ravisher: On the other hand it was suggested

  that She could do no more than suspect; that no proofs of his

  guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the

  rape to have been committed without Antonia's knowing when,

  where, or by whom; and finally, He believed that his fame was too

  firmly established to be shaken by the unsupported accusations of

  two unknown Women. This latter argument was perfectly false: He

  knew not how uncertain is the air of popular applause, and that a

  moment suffices to make him today the detestation of the world,

  who yesterday was its Idol. The result of the Monk's

  deliberations was that He should proceed in his enterprize. He

  ascended the steps leading to the House. No sooner did He touch

  the door with the silver Myrtle, than it flew open, and presented

  him with a free passage. He entered, and the door closed after

  him of its own accord.

  Guided by the moonbeams, He proceeded up the Staircase with

  slow and cautious steps. He looked round him every moment with

  apprehension and anxiety. He saw a Spy in every shadow, and

  heard a voice in every murmur of the night breeze. Consciousness

  of the guilty business on which He was employed appalled his

  heart, and rendered it more timid than a Woman's. Yet still He

  proceeded. He reached the door of Antonia's chamber. He stopped,

  and listened. All was hushed within. The total silence

  persuaded him that his intended Victim was retired to rest, and

  He ventured to lift up the Latch. The door was fastened, and

  resisted his efforts: But no sooner was it touched by the

  Talisman, than the Bolt flew back. The Ravisher stept on, and

  found himself in the chamber, where slept the innocent Girl,

  unconscious how dangerous a Visitor was drawing near her Couch.

  The door closed after him, and the Bolt shot again into its

  fastening.

  Ambrosio advanced with precaution. He took care that not a board

  should creak under his foot, and held in his breath as He

  approached the Bed. His first attention was to perform the magic

  ceremony, as Matilda had charged him: He breathed thrice upon

  the silver Myrtle, pronounced over it Antonia's name, and laid it

  upon her pillow. The effects which it had already produced

  permitted not his doubting its success in prolonging the slumbers

  of his devoted M
istress. No sooner was the enchantment

  performed than He considered her to be absolutely in his power,

  and his eyes flamed with lust and impatience. He now ventured to

  cast a glance upon the sleeping Beauty. A single Lamp, burning

  before the Statue of St. Rosolia, shed a faint light through the

  room, and permitted him to examine all the charms of the lovely

  Object before him. The heat of the weather had obliged her to

  throw off part of the Bed-cloathes: Those which still covered

  her, Ambrosio's insolent hand hastened to remove. She lay with

  her cheek reclining upon one ivory arm; The Other rested on the

  side of the Bed with graceful indolence. A few tresses of her

  hair had escaped from beneath the Muslin which confined the rest,

  and fell carelessly over her bosom, as it heaved with slow and

  regular suspiration. The warm air had spread her cheek with

  higher colour than usual. A smile inexpressibly sweet played

  round her ripe and coral lips, from which every now and then

  escaped a gentle sigh or an half-pronounced sentence. An air of

  enchanting innocence and candour pervaded her whole form; and

  there was a sort of modesty in her very nakedness which added

  fresh stings to the desires of the lustful Monk.

  He remained for some moments devouring those charms with his

  eyes which soon were to be subjected to his ill-regulated

  passions. Her mouth half-opened seemed to solicit a kiss: He

  bent over her; he joined his lips to hers, and drew in the

  fragrance of her breath with rapture. This momentary pleasure

  increased his longing for still greater. His desires were raised

  to that frantic height by which Brutes are agitated. He

  resolved not to delay for one instant longer the accomplishment

  of his wishes, and hastily proceeded to tear off those garments

  which impeded the gratification of his lust.

  'Gracious God!' exclaimed a voice behind him; 'Am I not deceived?

  Is not this an illusion?'

  Terror, confusion, and disappointment accompanied these words, as

  they struck Ambrosio's hearing. He started, and turned towards

  it. Elvira stood at the door of the chamber, and regarded the

  Monk with looks of surprize and detestation.

  A frightful dream had represented to her Antonia on the verge of

  a precipice. She saw her trembling on the brink: Every moment

  seemed to threaten her fall, and She heard her exclaim with

  shrieks, 'Save me, Mother! Save me!--Yet a moment, and it will be